


A Thing of the Past

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Confusion, F/F, Hunt Gone Wrong, Jealousy, Light Angst, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: A hunt gone wrong leaves you without memories of the last five years of your life. One person you do remember is Rowena, but she is very different than the evil, manipulative witch you knew. You have nothing but questions, starting with, why does she act like you're friends — and possibly more than that?
Relationships: Rowena MacLeod/You
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45





	A Thing of the Past

There had certainly been weird ways you'd woken up, but nothing could compare to opening your eyes to Sam and Dean Winchester hovering over you, watching you like hawks, concern etched into their faces.

You flinched as if struck, startled. They instantly stepped back and put their hands up in a calming manner, muttering that it was okay, that you were safe. Which you highly doubted because they were with you, and _they_ weren't safe. No place with them was safe. The only thing — the only _person —_ you felt safe with was—

"Y/N!" a familiar voice exclaimed, and, like magic, there she was, and suddenly all your uncertainty fluttered away like dust scattered by the wind. Even before your eyes met hers — concerned. Why was she concerned? Had she been _crying? —_ you were at peace, perfectly relaxed. She was here. You were okay. Everything was okay, regardless of the Winchesters' presence. You were sure there was a reasonable explanation for everything, and if anyone would have it, it would be Rowena.

There was no one you trusted more than her, even though she sometimes made it difficult. It wasn't easy to trust a woman who openly admitted — bragged, even — she wasn't capable of love and killed people at the drop of a hat just because she felt like it. You could sense there was more to her than met the eye, something deeper, kinder buried deep underneath those walls she'd built over the centuries to protect herself. She wanted to present herself as a monster, and she did a good job at that. But there were flickers of that other side of her that surfaced sometimes, when she let her guard down. When she felt relaxed, at peace, safe.

You fully intended to meet that Rowena, to bait her out. To show her that it was okay to be human. That it was okay to be vulnerable. One day, you'd promised yourself a while ago, when you'd first caught a glimpse of that hidden woman. One day you would see her in her full glory. No matter how much you had to wait.

Rowena's hand was on yours, her grip strong, iron. She was sitting at your bedside. Her makeup was smudged, hair (wavy rather than curled) ragged, tangled, a mess that bore a striking resemblance to a bird's nest. Redness rimmed her eyes, and you really were convinced she was crying. Why? Had something happened? Had she gotten hurt?

She looked, you realized, upon a short inspection, different than usual. Gone was the gown you'd last seen her in — which one was it? One of the black ones, or the gold one? Instead, she was clad in a white blouse that fit her strangely well and a pair of dress pants, black and stylish. More business woman than witch, and yet, the outfit felt somewhat… right. As if it belonged on her. As if she were meant to wear it. Her nails were a gentle pink, a few shades lighter than she usually painted them.

Was she undercover?

Was this a dream?

And, most importantly (heat filling your cheeks), why was she holding your hand?

"Rowena," you uttered, your voice hoarse, throat sandpaper. "What—"

The words froze in your throat as Rowena leapt up from her seat and threw her arms around you, locking you into a hug. A tight, bone-crushing one that knocked all the air out of you and the only thing you could do was gasp for a breath.

Your throat was dry, scratchy, as if stuffed with cotton. Eyes wide as if you'd seen a ghost (though, you were willing to argue, encountering a ghost would have been much better than… whatever the hell all this was). Muscles stiff. Body motionless, still as a statue. 

Only one thing, one question that nagged at you like an unrelenting spouse, rang through your mind.

_What the fuck is going on?!_

Rowena didn't hug. Her peak of affection was a smile accompanied by an exclamation of, "Wonderful work!" every time you'd successfully learned a spell, full of pride reserved, for the most part, for her. Because she had taught you. Because it had been her time and effort that had made you learn. Without her, you wouldn't be able to do it. You were more than aware of it, her smiles and praise sure to remind you every time, intent on never letting you forget.

She had made you. If it weren't for her, you would still be that meek, scared witch, struggling with the simplest of spells. You should be grateful — and you were, immensely so, and ste reveled in it, basked in it like a queen lapping up the approval of her people. If witches had royalty, you couldn't see anyone else on the throne. And if there happened to be another witch, you were sure Rowena would fight tooth and nail for that crown — and win it because she was Rowena MacLeod. What she needed, she got. What she wanted, she took.

What she deserved, what she deemed to be rightfully hers, she claimed with hands stained with blood and a smile that promised death to anyone who dared stand in her way.

"I was out of my mind," she said. Then, joking, "You really know how to worry a girl."

"I…"

What were you supposed to say? How were you supposed to react? Rowena — the woman of your dreams, the love of your life — was hugging you. Her arms were around you, warm and soft, exactly as you'd imagined them, and you'd never felt safer. Even with the Winchester around. And not only that — she had apparently been worried about you.

Rowena MacLeod — the self-professed heartless bitch — had been worried about you.

A sarcastic remark or a snide comment were to be expected, but this? This was new territory. Uncharted, unexplored. Lethal, if your experiences had taught you anything. And yet…

And yet…

"I'm sorry?" you muttered.

"You better be." Pulling back, she looked you in the eyes. Something dawned on her face, an emotion you couldn't quite place. Relief, you realized after a short moment of pondering on it. Relief and ease. Peace. Calm. As if a heavy weight had suddenly been lifted off her shoulders and she could finally breathe freely.

"What happened?" you asked, hoping she would explain. Hoping she would say something that made sense for so far nothing did, not even a sliver.

"Poor dear, you must have hit your head pretty hard." Seemingly instinctively, Rowena laid a hand to your forehead. A dull ache prickled under the place she touched you, and you flinched. She instantly pulled her hand away, face apologetic, filled with guilt, and started stroking your hair instead. "The witch threw you against a wall. But not to worry. I've taken care of her." Her lips tightened into a firm line you knew all too well; a threat, dangerous, unforgiving. "I'm sure she's having a marvelous time in Hell."

She'd killed a witch. For you. Was this some sort of parallel reality?

And why did Sam and Dean look so casual about it? As if it was every day that Rowena killed — witches, at that — for you. As if it was every day that she hugged you and stroked your head and spoke to you in a voice so incredibly soft your insides melted into a puddle.

As if they didn't hate her, and she didn't hate them.

What had that witch done to you?

"Okay, but…" You cleared your throat. Looked from Sam and Dean to Rowena, back and forth. Unsure how to approach the issue without raising suspicion for, for all you knew, this was a begrudging alliance and one wrong move could get you and Rowena thrown into a dungeon, bound in heavy iron, or, even worse, get you both witch-killing bullets in your heads.

Noticing your discomfort, Rowena leaned closer. "Yes, dear?"

Your heart swelled, warm, fuzzy butterflies roiling in your stomach. There was something… _real_ about the nicknames. Something genuine. Straight from the heart. More than mere courteousness, though you were sure you were imagining it. Rowena didn't feel anything. She wasn't able to. She was just being friendly. Overly so, but still, it was nothing more than friendship — or something similar to that for, along with love, friendship was another thing she didn't do.

Acquaintanceship, maybe. Allyship. Witch solidarity.

You threw one more glance at the Winchesters, who seemed confused though not overly concerned, and, motioning for her to get closer, whispered, "What is going on here?"

Rowena frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Why are we here?"

"You got hurt, darling."

"No, why are we _here?_ With _them?"_

She looked at Sam and Dean, then back at you. "What do you mean?"

You grit your teeth in frustration. What did _you_ mean?

What did _she_ mean?

"Since when do we go to the _Winchesters—"_ you spat the word venomously "—when we get hurt?"

Rowena opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. Sucked in a breath to gather her thoughts. "They were with us."

"What? Why?"

Why would they be with you? Had they tried to trick Rowena into another deal? Had they wanted to kidnap her again, torture her, murder her?

"We were helping them with a case. Remember? They called us last night." Her expression softened. "Poor dear. You must have suffered a concussion."

It took everything in you not to gasp out loud. You were helping the Winchesters with a case? They'd called you, and you did it — just like that? And, after you'd gotten hurt, they were helping you?

How bad _had_ you hit your head?

Why was Rowena being so casual about it? Why did she talk about it as if it were normal, as if it just happened that Sam and Dean asked for help? As if she didn't mind?

The Rowena you knew would have minded. And, even if she agreed to do it, she wouldn't be so relaxed around them. She would never put her guard down.

"Not to worry," she said, shaking you from your thoughts. "I'll make you a wee potion. You'll be good as new in no time."

You gulped. "Why were we helping them?"

"Like I said, they asked."

"That doesn't make any sense"

Nothing made sense. Not Sam and Dean being so close, so concerned. Not Rowena acting like a worried mother hen, when usually she would have told you to be a big girl and suck it up. Not this situation, which seemed less real, less tangible by the second.

"Did they promise us something?" you asked.

Rowena chuckled nervously. "No. Why would-why are you asking?"

You were flabbergasted. "Are you serious?"

Suspicion crept on her face. "Y/N," she said, and her tone was serious. The same tone she used when she spoke about crushing her enemies, and had every intention of making good on it, "what is the last thing you remember?"

"I…"

What _was_ the last thing you remembered? Rowena — you were pretty sure she was there. She was saying something; you weren't sure what, at first, but the more you pondered on it, the clearer her words became.

She was working with Lucifer.

You'd told her it wasn't a good idea, but there was no talking her out of it. Lucifer would do both of you good, she'd said. All she had to do was help him out, and then she — and, along with her, you — was set for life. Queen of everything, right by his side.

It was stupid. She would get hurt; you knew she would. Nothing good ever came from working with Lucifer. You'd heard stories. The archangel was a liar, a deceiver by nature. He was using her.

But she would hear none of it. She knew what she was doing — she was adamant about it, and you could either take it or leave it.

As if you'd had a choice in the matter. She knew well enough you were down with everything she was involved with. Even if every inch of you despised it.

"We were talking."

"What were we talking about?"

Really? She was so bold as to ask that with the Winchesters in the same room? You were whispering amongst yourselves, but that didn't mean they couldn't pick up certain words.

The Devil's name — if uttered, hell, if even thought of — was sure to raise eyebrows.

"The dreams," you said.

Rowena blinked. "What dreams?"

"You know, _the dreams."_

No recognition crossed her face.

Had she also hurt her head?

"Your, um, nightly excursions with the Father of Lies?" you said with a tad more bitterness than intended, unable to stop yourself from letting it slip through. Selfish as it was, you wished they were your dreams. Your reality. Wished that her eyes shined the same when yours met them as they did when she talked about him. Wished that she admired — wanted, _craved —_ you as she did him.

Silly desires. Childish. It wasn't like you had that much to offer — other than your friendship, and you doubted that was something a woman of her tastes was interested in. She wanted influence, power. Unlimited. Unstoppable.

Lucifer had that, and more.

You, on the other hand, had nothing. You _were_ nothing.

Rowena pulled away as if slapped, hard. All color drained from her face. She was white as a sheet, paler than you'd ever seen her before. Your heart jumped, slammed hard against your chest. Had you said it too loud? Had you given her up? She'd been loud and clear that her involvement with Lucifer was a secret of the highest order. No one was to find out about it. It was one of the few things, few of her tightly held secrets, she trusted you with.

You hoped with everything you had that you hadn't let her down.

"Rowena?" Sam said, concern lacing his face. Blissfully, it seemed, unaware of what you'd said. "Are you okay?"

Rowena's lower lip trembled, as if she were holding back a cry. As if a sob, loud, deafening, wanted to tear from her throat. She kept herself in check, however, quickly sucking in a breath and raising her head up high and proud. The queen of disguise, though you always saw right through her. There wasn't much she could hide from you. Not that you dared say it out loud; she preferred to keep her weaknesses hidden, and you complied. It was a wordless agreement the two of you had come to. She let slivers of her true self, of the woman rejected and turned twisted by the world, out around you; not much, but enough for you to know that, despite what she presented herself as, she wasn't a stone-cold monster. In turn, you kept your mouth shut. You let her be. You didn't bring it up in conversations.

You didn't use it against her.

"Y/N." Her voice wavered, letters held together by a thread. She swallowed. "What year is it?"

"2015," you answered without hesitation. What did that have to do with anything? You were a bit murky on the details, but you knew what year it was. You weren't _that_ crazy.

You were certain Rowena couldn't get any paler, yet here she was, drained, colorless. A corpse on legs. What was it that had her so scared?

Was it the Winchesters? Had she sold them a cover story of some sort, only for you to somehow blow it? Had _she_ blown it?

"What do you mean, 2015?" Sam asked, stunned.

"It's the year," you said, gesturing vaguely around. "You know, the year we're in right now."

He exchanged a look with Dean, both of them falling quite pale themselves.

"Well, not for long," you added, if, for nothing else, to break the tension for the silence that settled over the room was too uncomfortable. "A month, or so."

"A month." It was Dean who said it, his face the picture of confusion.

"It's November," you reminded him.

"It—Y/N, that's wrong," Sam said. 

You were pretty sure you knew your dates. Well, not actual dates, but you knew it was November.

"Its November 2015," you said loud and clear, irritation blooming in your stomach.

"No," Rowena said after a silent moment, and the utmost despair in her voice shattered your heart into a million pieces, "it is not."

How could it not be? It had to be November of 2015. You remembered the year flashing on your phone. Remembered the calendar hanging on the wall in the lobby of the hotel you and Rowena had booked a room in. Remembered the big, bold letters spelling out NOVEMBER, and a photograph of naked trees surrounded by fallen leaves accompanying them.

"It's 2020," Dean said.

You laughed. Loud, hearty, as if Rowena had spat yet another Scottish word you didn't know the meaning of, but, with her thick accent and the absolute madness on her face, you found found it hilarious. "No, it's not."

What kind of a joke were they playing? Why did it look as if Rowena was in on it?

Why…?

_Oh, gods!_

"It's not 2020!" you exclaimed. Everyone's eyes were on you. Watching you carefully, intently. Observing your every movement. Taking in every detail; every miniscule movement you made, every breath you took, every beat of your heart and twitch of your nerves. As if you were an experiment. A failed science project for everyone to scrutinize, to pull apart and learn from its flaws.

Pressure exploded inside you, your muscles tensing, stilling as stones buried under your skin. It wasn't 2020 — was it? It couldn't be. Five years didn't pass just like that. It was 2015, and Rowena was obsessed with Lucifer, and you were obsessed with her, and why was everyone staring at you — why wouldn't they stop?

"It's 2015!" you insisted, more for your benefit than to prove them right. It couldn't be any other year. They were messing with you. Trying to make you look crazy. Well, tough luck, because you were _not_ crazy, and you weren't going to let them make a fool out of you.

Who knew what they'd done to Rowena? For all you knew, they could have brainwashed her. They could have found something — a spell, a mind control chip — and used it to make her into their slave. The Winchesters couldn't be trusted.

"Y/N—" Sam tried gently, almost (the thought made you gag) friendly.

You held up a hand. "Don't!"

"It's 2020, darling," Rowena said, and it was so earnest, so damn honest you wanted to believe her.

But how could you? It didn't make sense. None of this made sense. You at the Bunker. Sam and Dean acting like concerned friends. Rowena being so casual, so at ease around them.

It was wrong.

Everything about this was so wrong.

"No." You shook your head. Heart leaping. Fingers squeezing into fists. Nails biting into skin. "It's no—it can't be!"

"It is."

She approached you again, careful, tentative. Laid a hand on your shoulder. You melted into the touch; soft, gentle, it shattered all your worries, squashed them, and, for a short moment, everything felt right again despite being so very, very wrong. Rowena was here. You didn't know why, but she was here, and she cared about you, and everything was going to be okay. She would make it okay.

"What's wrong with her?" Dean asked.

"It looks like a curse," Rowena said in that same lullaby voice, so much different than you were used to. So much sweeter, lovelier. Kinder. "The witch probably tried to wipe her memories before I got to her."

"I'm cursed?" The words tasted bitter on your tongue.

"Aye, darling."

A shudder ran through you. "You're sure?"

"Aye."

"This is not some sort of prank?"

"No."

Queasiness roiled through you. Your stomach turned, twisted as if a knot had tightened inside it. It was 2020. The year was 2020. Rowena was nice. Too nice for what you were used to. And the Winchesters were — what? Your friends? Allies? Acquaintances?

You gasped for breaths, heart running a thousand miles an hour in your chest. Pounding as if it were about to explode. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. It was too much—

"Here." Rowena shoved a glass of water in your hands and guided it to your mouth. You took a sip, shaking, her hands over yours steading your grip. "It's okay, darling."

You drank some more before allowing her to return the glass to the bedside table. "Five years." Your voice was raspy, broken, words barely squeezing out.

"Pardon?"

You cleared your throat. "I lost five years."

The sympathy that filled her eyes was overwhelming. Strange for, last time you checked, she wasn't capable of it. She didn't allow herself to be.

She'd changed so much, and you'd missed it.

What else important had you missed?

"It's not permanent." She cupped your cheek. Brushed her thumb over it. "Don't worry."

The touch burned your skin. You'd become close, it seemed. Become the kind of friends you always wanted to be, but never dared make the first move for you knew she would recoil from the mere idea. She was a different person now. She was everything you always wanted, and more, and you missed it. Tears prickled at your eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." Her tone rang with authority, with promise. With truth there was no point to question for she was a professional and she knew these things. If there was anyone who understood magic, it was her. "The witch is dead. She didn't finish the spell. A few more hours — a day, at most — and you'll be as good as new!"

You breathed out in relief. A few hours — you could do that. You could wait. "Okay."

"Do you need anything?" Rowena asked, attentive as a mama bear. "Something to eat? More water?"

"I'm okay, thanks." As okay as you could be, given the circumstances. "I just need to process everything."

She sat down by you. Laid a hand over yours. "It must be awful."

"You have no idea. This is all so… weird." And that was putting it mildly. You looked at the Winchesters. "I take it we're all… _friends._ In 2020."

Sam chuckled. "Something like that."

Dean didn't seem to be in complete agreement. At least something remained the same.

You turned to Rowena. "And you don't have the _dreams_ anymore?"

"Goodness, no!" she said. For a pagan, she seemed awfully close to crossing herself. "Lucifer is dead."

First good news of the day. "Awesome!"

"Aye." She grit her teeth. "He's rotting."

Bad blood, huh? You resisted an urge to spit out an I-told-you-so. "You're kinda nice."

"She is," Sam said jokingly.

Rowena huffed. Puffed her cheeks adorably. "I am _not_ nice."

"You are," you insisted. "It's… cool. I like it." You couldn't wait to remember how she got to be this way. It must have been difficult to change to this extent. She had to have worked on herself. Willingly for there was no way she was like this by force. She'd wanted to change, and she did. A tinge of pride bloomed in your chest. You always knew she had it in her. "I'm glad we're still—" you eyed her hand on yours. "—friends."

Rowena's cheeks burned red as her hair.

"Friends?" Dean chortled.

A teasing smile flickered over Sam's mouth.

Your blood froze. "We _are_ friends, right? Don't tell me we hate each other!"

"No," Rowena said. "No, no. The complete opposite, actually. But we aren't friends."

What were you, then? And why did she look so giddy about it? So, dare you say, happy? Could it be—

No. No way. Rowena would never go for you. You weren't rich, you weren't powerful, and you were a girl. You had nothing to offer that she would want. She wouldn't—

"We're together." She said it just like that. So matter-of-factly. So casually, as if it was normal for the two of you to be in a relationship. As if there was nothing strange about the prospect.

You gulped. _"Together_ together?"

She grinned. _"Together_ together."

Blood rushed to your cheeks. Your heart sped up again, running a marathon. Surely there was a mistake. A catch of some sort. Rowena wouldn't date you, would she? You must have heard it wrong, or imagined it. There was no way she was with you. No way that she would settle for less when she always strived for the most.

And yet, here she was, looking at you like you were the most important thing in the entire world. Like nothing and no one else existed but the two of you, all alone in the universe. She was holding your hand, and she was worried about you, and she felt something for you.

She _loved_ you.

You could tell from the look in her eyes. From the tenderness of her fingers twined with yours. From the way she spoke to you, and the way she smiled at you, and the fact that she was here, right by your side. As if she belonged there.

She knew that she did.

"H-how long?" you muttered, voice breaking, throat tightening, barely letting the words slip through.

Rowena smiled. Big, bright, beautiful. The kind of smile you'd never seen on her face before; not as far as you remembered. You wondered if she smiled like that often. If she'd finally allowed herself to be happy. She certainly looked it. "Four years," she said, and the softness of her tone, along with the matching expression on her face, told you she didn't regret a single day.

You bit your lip. Four years. Not that long from the year your memories were stuck in. A few more months, and she was years. You wondered what had happened. What had made her let you in. Had you made the first step? Had she seen the way you'd been looking at her, the way you'd been acting around her? 

"Look, Sammy, she's blushing!" Dean said with a grin. "I've never seen Y/N blush. Except that time in the library."

"Shut up!" you said, averting your eyes. Avoiding the teasing glint in his. Rowena leveled him with a stare that had to have killed before. "Rowena, what's he talking about?"

Her cheeks flushed the scarlet of her hair. "Nothing."

Dean snorted. "You once had sex in our library. Which — not cool. It's been two years and it still feels dirty, no matter how many times I disinfect it."

"Dude!" Sam said, shooting him his signature bitchface.

"What?" Dean said defensively. "At least they've never done it in Baby."

Rowena clicked her tongue. "Well…"

This time he was the one glaring daggers at her. "What?"

She shrugged. Fluttered her eyelashes innocently. _Shit._ You really _had_ had sex in Dean's beloved car.

It must have been amazing. Your pussy quivered at the thought. Cheeks burned hot. You were missing so much. So many important things, important moments. Your entire relationship was erased from your head, as if it had never existed. As if it was still nothing but a daydream you were convinced would never bleed into reality.

Sam cleared his throat. "I think we should leave them alone."

Dean raised his forefinger in what was supposed to be a threat, but looked more like a childish gesture. "When did—how—I—"

Rowena flashed him a smug smirk, which prompted him to flush with anger, with sheer and utter utter rage. If there was one thing you knew about Dean Winchester, it was that his car was sacred. No one was to touch it. No one was to damage it. And, most important of all, no one was to defile it. They could hurt him; they could tear apart his porn stash and burn down the Bunker, but his car — his precious, precious Baby — was off limits.

You wondered if that was why you and Rowena had done it. It it was some sort of a game, a provocation. A catch-us-if-you-can sort of thing. If so, he had clearly lost. Or perhaps it was spite, doing it for no reason other than to prove that you could.

Or it was a spur of the moment. Rowena was spontaneous enough to do it, and you were pretty sure, if the circumstances allowed it, you would follow in her lead without a complaint. Hell, for all you knew, it might as well have been you who'd initiated it.

Who in their right mind would pass on a chance to have sex with Rowena, even if their life was at stake?

"Let's give them some privacy," Sam said. "Come on."

Dean was red as a tomato. "Sammy, they—"

"I know."

"They defiled my car."

"I know."

"They defiled Baby."

"It—I'm sure it was a long time ago."

"Well—" Rowena started, only to be interrupted by a wild glare from Sam. She shut her mouth and licked her lips. Gave an innocent blink that wasn't fooling anyone.

"Come on," Sam said, ushering Dean out of the room. You thought the older Winchester would struggle, but he let his brother drag him out, gaze glued to Rowena, lips flickering open and closed like a fish out of water, all words trapped in his throat.

As soon as the door clicked closed, you breathed out in relief. You could hold your own against Dean; as nasty as the man could sometimes be, he didn't scare you. Not always, anyway. Not now, with Rowena by your side, and Sam seemingly backing the two of you up. Still, you preferred peace to war. With your memories gone, still confused and a tad dazed, you weren't in the mood for conflict.

"Did—did we really have sex in Baby?"

Rowena grinned like it was Christmas. "Och, aye."

More heat spilled over your cheeks, your skin boiling to the touch. The car, the library… "Do we often have sex in public places?" Knowing her, it wouldn't surprise you.

"Only on special occasions."

You quirked up an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"When the chance presents itself."

A bark of laughter tore from your mouth. Rowena laughed along, heartily, joyously. Happily, and it was so strange to see her like that. Change had done her good.

"Rowena, what are we like?"

She tilted her head, curious. "What do you mean?"

"Our relationship. Is it good?" As much as you wanted it to be, as much as you'd daydreamed it, you knew things didn't always work out like that. Real life had a way — a cruel, wicked way — of ruining things, of twisting and corrupting them until they were nothing but a shell of what they used to be. What they were _supposed_ to be. "Are we happy?"

Rowena's face lit up. "We are very happy." She squeezed your hand. Twined her fingers with yours in an unbreakable knot.

Warmth swelled in your chest, filled up your heart. "You're different." Wasn't that an understatement?

"I am." There was a tinge of pride to the words. Accomplishment.

She wanted to change. Whatever the reason was, you were glad. This was the Rowena who you'd always seen glimpses of. The woman hiding behind protective walls of coldness and cruelty. A woman who could be sweet and kind and gentle, whose smiles could be genuine, whose words could bring comfort rather than fear. A woman who was more than just a wicked witch.

"You look… happy," you said. The Rowena you knew never was. She pretended to be, put on a facade, but there was no light in her eyes. There was no genuinity in that manufactured happiness. "It's nice."

"I suppose I found what makes me happy," she said, eyes locking with yours.

"I'm glad you did."

If anyone deserved it, it was her. She hadn't told you much about her past, but you could always tell she'd suffered. The world wasn't kind to her, and she wasn't kind to it back.

Her face suddenly darkened. Eyes fell to your linked hands. "I was awful to you, wasn't I?"

"What?"

"Back then. I was horrible. I was using you. That is the me you remember, isn't it?"

"I… It wasn't that bad." And it wasn't. She'd promised to mentor you and you'd agreed to it. It was a business transaction like any other. You were the one who'd caught feelings, who'd wished for the acquaintanceship (even that was a stretch) to turn into a friendship. To turn into more than a friendship. "You were my teacher."

"I strung you along." she said in a quivering voice, guilt etched into her face. "I took advantage of you."

She did, and it hurt, but… "It's all in the past. Isn't it? Do I often bring it up?"

She shook her head. "We never talked about it."

"Why talk about it now?"

"Because you don't remember." She sucked in a breath. Swallowed. "You don't know how much I regret the way I treated you."

"I do." You could see it on her face. Could hear it in her voice, in the rapid thuds of her heart. She wasn't the woman you used to know. She was different. Better. For the first time, you weren't afraid to love her. Weren't afraid to let the feelings overwhelm you for you knew she shared them and it was the most beautiful thing in the world. Not everyone could win the affections of Rowena MacLeod. It was a privilege you would cherish to the grave. "If it means anything, I forgive you. For before."

It meant the world, it seemed. Her eyes glittered. She allowed herself to smile.

You returned it. "Do we still jump from hotel to hotel?"

"We've settled down," she said with a shake of her head.

A picture of a mansion, big and tall, flashed in your mind. Rooms as big as the entire Bunker. Walls painted gold, adorned with expensive, custom-made paintings. A large yard filled with blooming herbs and flowers. A big, fancy fence lining the property, protecting it from unwanted attention. A garage stuffed with the newest models of luxury cars.

"Somewhere fancy, I presume."

"Not exactly."

You quirked an eyebrow. Rowena reached for her phone, opened the photo gallery app, and shoved the phone in your hands. You flipped through the pictures, mouth widening into a grin. They were selfies, each featuring you both. Eyes lit, smiles bright. There were some where you made faces or gave Rowena bunny ears while she glared, clearly not in the mood. There was a house in the background of a few of them. A normal suburban house, not too different from the ones you saw in movies set in small towns. Some pictures featured a small garden, others a metal fence. Some were taken inside, by the furniture that, while classy, was far from the luxury you'd imagined.

"Wow," you said, surprised. "That's… different."

"You chose it," Rowena said.

"And you let me?"

She shrugged. "It's a lovely home. I bargained myself a jacuzzi."

"Of course you did."

She snickered. "It stands out less than a mansion."

"So it's like a hiding place."

"Aye."

"Do we often have to hide?"

"We did a few times. The house is heavily warded. Nothing sans a deity can get in."

"You took good care of it."

"We both did."

 _Both._ "So I'm a better witch now? Than I used to be."

"Much better." She smirked. "You've got a great teacher, after all."

You rolled your eyes teasingly. "Of course." A silence befell the room, then, curious, you asked, "Do you and Crowley get along now?"

Once again, Rowena paled. All light drained from her face. She turned her head, avoiding your eyes. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she uttered, "He's gone."

"Oh." Your heart sank. The man was a bastard, but he was a fun one. It was weird to imagine a world he wasn't in. Unnatural. He seemed like one of those people who would always be there, come hell or high water. "I'm… sorry?"

"It's fine."

You could tell it wasn't. In the four years you'd lost, it appeared she'd learned to care about him. Allowed herself to feel what every mother should. Curiosity nibbled at you, but you chose to keep it to yourself. Rowena wasn't in the mood for answering such questions. It was too raw, too painful. To depressing for the occasion.

"Do I ever tell you I love you?" you asked, itching for a change of topic.

That prompted Rowena to chuckle. "You say it all the time."

You blushed. "I do?"

"Mmhm. And I always say it back."

She did? She said it out loud? She didn't just feel it — she expressed it in words?

Swallowing a breath for courage, you stammered, "I… I love you." Your heart raced. Slammed so hard against your chest, it ached. It felt good to say it out loud. Ecstatic. Liberating. As if the words were trapped and had finally gained their freedom.

Rowena flashed a thousand watt smile and, in her softest, loveliest voice, said, "I love you, too, my darling."

The words rolled off her tongue in a purr as soft as silk. Your insides were on fire, nerves flickering, sparking like electricity through your veins. Had you — the other you, the one who'd lived through everything and remembered every moment — gotten used to it? Had you gotten used to her expressing herself so openly, so freely, without a lick of fear? Had her admission of love become just another set of words the two of you exchanged, no different than a hello or a good morning?

For, hearing those words, hearing the absolute conviction in them, it didn't feel like something you could possibly get used to.

Rowena MacLeod didn't love just anyone. She didn't say it aloud for just everyone.

It was a privilege, and you were the only one privy to it.

She leaned down and, slowly, gently, making sure you were comfortable, pressed her mouth to yours. Electricity shot through you, engulfed you from your mouth down to the rest of your body. She tasted sweet, like sugar and love and everything nice and beautiful. Like heaven and hell all at once. Dark chocolate and honey. Scotch and wine. Teasing and indulging, giving you just enough of a taste to leave you desperate, to make you crave more.

You froze for a moment. A victim of your senses going haywire, of tingles flooding your limbs, burning your veins, setting you alight one little bit at a time. You'd imagined kissing Rowena so many times. Daydreamed it. Kissed the mirror in secret, pretending it was her. A couple times you'd engaged with strangers at bars, men and women alike, your eyes always closed to paint Rowena by your side instead of them; her arms around you, her lips on yours.

None of it could compare to this. She was a great kisser. The best you'd ever had. No fantasy could measure up to the real thing.

You wrapped your arms around her and deepened the kiss, pulling her closer, taking her — all of her, mind, body, and soul — in. Devouring her with every movement, every little twist and turn of your tongue.

She was everything you'd ever wanted, and more. Magic from her core to her person. Delicious. Enchanting. So addictive you never wanted to part from her, never wanted your skin to leave the warmth and comfort of hers.

As night fell, she laid down beside you and cuddled against you. She fit perfectly into your arms, a matching piece of a puzzle. Her head rested on your chest, your heart's gentle thuds lulling her to sleep. You watched her for a while, gently stroking her hair. She looked at peace. Comfortable. Safe. She trusted you in this most vulnerable state. Her breathing was slow and even, a calming little melody.

 _I'm so lucky to have you,_ you thought as you drifted off into slumber.

It was early morning when you opened your eyes. Rowena was the same as you'd left her, equally calm, deep in sleep. Yesterday seemed like a blur, a drunken-like stupor. Your head throbbed. Eyes prickled with exhaustion. After-effects of the curse, you supposed.

Your memories, to your grand relief, were back.

Rowena stirred, shifted against you. A moan, small, barely audible, fell from her mouth. Adorable to the bone.

A smile broke out on your mouth.

You really were lucky.

You wouldn't trade her for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by miss-moon-guardian.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely friend fangirlxwritesx67 for helping with the summary!


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